


Treasons and Promises

by ineptshieldmaid



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-10
Updated: 2010-11-10
Packaged: 2017-10-13 13:47:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/138041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineptshieldmaid/pseuds/ineptshieldmaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur found out about magic the same day he found out that Merlin was fucking his foster-sister.</p><p>Forms of treason are interchangeable, untruths are interchangeable, <i>betrayal</i> is interchangeable. <i>Don't make this about Morgana</i>, but of course it <i>was</i> about Morgana. <i>Don't make this about politics, Arthur</i>, but it was, Morgana knew that as well as he, it was <i>always</i> politics, politics with everything she said and everything he touched.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Treasons and Promises

**Author's Note:**

> I found this sitting in my gdocs folder; I don't remember ever writing it, but it appears to have been beta'd by Trojie sometime in March this year (thanks, Trojie!). It's future-fic, but probably only canon-compliant up to the end of Season One.

Arthur found out about magic the same day he found out that Merlin was fucking his foster-sister.

Forms of treason are interchangeable, untruths are interchangeable, _betrayal_ is interchangeable. _Don't make this about Morgana_ , but of course it _was_ about Morgana. _Don't make this about politics, Arthur_ , but it was, Morgana knew that as well as he, it was _always_ politics, politics with everything she said and everything he touched.

"I don't give a damn about your _virtue_ , Morgana." And he realised, suddenly, strangely, that he didn't. He didn't give a damn about what she did with her cunt or with her thoughts, but he gave a damn about this kingdom and he gave a damn about duty and he gave a damn about all the traditions he had to uphold.

He gave a damn about the _truth_. He gave a damn about lies told to him and he gave a damn about lies to the _kingdom_.

Things were strained, after that.

~

Arthur made a point of escorting Morgana on rides and to feasts and picnics, and, for once, Morgana forwent her habit of favouring other knights to infuriate him. She was _charming_ , her sarcasm buried beneath silk and irony. Her fingers lingered on his exposed wrist; long, unhasty witches' fingers. Her skirts - they were everywhere, twitching against his legs as they walked; her kirtle catching on the hilt of his sword. He had to lift her skirts away from his legs to stand up from the garden seat. At banquets - well. He seriously considered the possibility that the table had been shortened, or perhaps more seats added, because he was sure he would have noticed if she had always sat so close against him. But then - no. She had definitely _not_ always had that knack for brushing his side with her knuckles, the skin of his arm with hers,

"My manservant not doing it for you anymore?" he hissed, under cover of the third course. Morgana dragged her nails gently, gently over the fabric of Arthur's breeches, and he thought she might not answer. Then, with a little toss of her head:

"Oh, he is. Quite well, thank you." And Merlin, damn him, chose that exact moment to lean down between them, refilling first Arthur's goblet, then Morgana's. And now _he_ was pressed up against them both, his ridiculous gangly frame against Arthur's shoulder, and what did Morgana see in him, anyway?

"Is there anything else you require, my lord?" Merlin positively _purred_ in his ear, and Arthur shook his head sharply.

"My lady?" Merlin hovered a moment too long over Morgana's shoulder, and then, with her sweetest smile, Morgana purred back,

"No, thank you, Merlin."

~

And then, there was Merlin. He was - well, Arthur had never said to him "you can't fuck girls". Actually, he'd asked him, every so often, about the girls he wasn't fucking, and when Merlin's eyes hooded over and he backed Arthur into the wall and kissed him, hard and hot and hasty, that maybe it meant there weren't any girls, would never be any girls.

There weren't any girls.

There was only Morgana, and witchery.

Merlin moved around Arthur's chambers like a ghost, a haunting: silent and slipshod in his duties, as if daring Arthur to comment or reprove him.

Merlin damped the fire by magic and lit the candles with a flash of his eyes, staring Arthur down, staring through him into something else. Something distant, something in his blood and skin, something closer and dearer to him than duty or truth or _Arthur_. After a few weeks, Arthur put a hand out, touched him. Merlin startled, and his breath shuddered over Arthur's arm.

"How's..." Arthur cast about for something to say. "How's Gaius?"

Merlin quivered.

"He doesn't know, Arthur." Which hadn't been what Arthur wanted. He wanted - he didn't know _what_ he wanted. He just wanted.

"He doesn't know."

Merlin shook his head, looking frantic. "Please, Arthur. He doesn't know. It's not - please don't - he couldn't have done anything."

Arthur let him go. Later, he realised he did not know which Merlin had meant - Morgana, or the magic.

~

There were some traditions which Morgana was evidently willing to uphold.

Morgana's birthdays were happy: bright, festive occaisions. On the anniversary of his knighthood, Arthur would host (and win, as always) a tournament and preside over a feast. But this - no, Arthur's birthdays were never happy.

She brought the food, as usual: Arthur had brought only wine, although he'd expected to be alone. The tower-top was lit with fey witch-light and there was Morgana, with bread and cheese and honey cakes and - yes, _more_ wine.

"Happy Birthday," she said, and, as always, it sounded hollow.

When he was fifteen, and Morgana seventeen, they had seen the moon go dark, and Arthur had kissed her, clumsy and aching. She had dragged her fingers through his hair (it was longer, then) and kissed him, not hesitantly but too hard. They had drank, and drank, and kissed desperately, and then they had stopped kissing and kept drinking, holding hands as the sky grew light around them, and then Arthur had thrown up on Morgana's shoes.

"Try not to throw up this time," Morgana said, as tradition demanded. Arthur took the wineskin she offered, and toasted her.

"Try not to..." and there, he'd forgotten it. Try not to - what? Try not to be insufferable? Try not to kiss me again? No. Try _to_.

"Try to kiss me again,' Arthur said. Morgana had brought a goblet for herself (goblets for ladies, wineskins for princes), and she took her time pouring it. "Try to kiss me again, and I'll..."

"And you'll what?"

It ought to have been a threat. Try to kiss me again, and I will throw up. A most dignified threat, coined on his sixteenth birthday, and observed every year. It held them together, in a way, carefully maintaining the status quo. Yes, we could; but no, we won't.

The witch-lights hovered around Morgana's hair. Arthur wondered if she had made them herself, or if she'd needed Merlin's help.

"Try to kiss me again, and I'll marry you," he said, all in a rush. "I'll marry you, and when I'm king you'll be queen and we'll change the law, and you can do magic, and Merlin.." _need never lie to me again_.

Morgana laughed, and kissed him, just once, cool and amused.

"Come to bed with me, Arthur."

Arthur went.


End file.
